


mockingbird won't sing

by S_Hylor



Series: Bingo Round 1 2018 [4]
Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Bottom Steve, Depression, M/M, Mpreg, Perinatal Depression, Sex Pollen, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Unplanned Pregnancy, Unwanted Pregnancy, harmful thoughts towards an unborn child, no actual harm occurs, unintentional neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:31:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14781986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/S_Hylor
Summary: Steve had fought in the war, seen a man made hell on earth and somehow clawed his way out the other side of it, even if it took him decades to resurface. He hates the world he’s found himself in, doesn’t fit into this shiny, too bright, too loud future, but he keeps fighting, because it’s all he knows how to do. It’s in one of those fights that he gets dosed with an unknown chemical agent that makes him want and need things he shouldn’t, makes him give in to that want. It’s just one night, but that’s all it takes to leave him facing something he can’t defeat.





	mockingbird won't sing

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by this [Steve/Tony kink meme prompt](https://cap-ironman.dreamwidth.org/1831058.html?thread=13786258#cmt13786258) that I found and instantly fell in love with. Also using it for my "first time" square of the Cap Iron Man 2018 Round 1 Bingo. 
> 
> Super special thanks to [SirSapling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirSapling) for being head cheer reader and rampant fanboy on this fic. You can thank him for this even being posted, and about six more months worth of head canon for this fic's little universe that might be getting turned into a sequel. 
> 
> Also a super special thanks to [KittKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittKat) for the beta read - exceptionally fast and very helpful (sorry, but I had to keep the UK English spelling. It hurts me to spell realise with a z, I just can't do it.) 
> 
> More detailed warnings in end notes.

Bile burns the back of his throat and up into his sinuses as he tries to hold in the vomit. He sprints to the bathroom, tripping over his discarded uniform on the tiled floor in his haste, barely catching himself on the lip of the toilet bowl before he spits bile and what had been breakfast into the bowl. His head spins as he pants against the porcelain, trying to hold himself steady as he feels another wave of nausea hit him.

He hasn’t been sick like this since before the war. Before Project Rebirth. He feels everything ache, his knees especially, something he thought he’d left behind with everything else in his life when he’d become Captain America.

When his stomach finally stops threatening to crawl right out of his throat, he slumps to the side, taking comfort in the coldness of the tiles beneath him, sapping the heat out of his skin. Managing to muster up enough energy, he shifts until he’s half propped against the wall, able to reach up enough to flush the toilet and to see the disgusting splatters of vomit all over the front of his shirt. It takes more effort than it should to drag his shirt off over his head, mop at the damp patches on his chest, before throwing the shirt over to join his uniform.

Frowning down at himself to check for any more signs of vomit, absently wondering if he has the energy to crawl into the shower or just go to bed, Steve eyes the slight distortion of his stomach with trepidation. Something isn’t right, but he’s so tired he can’t think back enough to the last few missions to try and work out what he might have come in contact with that’s caused the stomach upset. Everything recently had been pretty mundane.

Deciding just to crawl into bed and sleep, he orders himself to go to SHIELD medical the next day to get checked out.

  


///

  


When the medical report came back, Steve decided the best course of action was to reverently ignore the bullshit that they tried telling him. There was no way. Not a chance. It couldn’t happen because he was a man, not some dame.

It just wasn’t possible.

  


///

  


And yet, his mornings were plagued with throwing up in the toilet, his days spent glaring angrily at the soaps playing on the television, with a bucket sitting beside him on the couch just in case. One episode of scrubbing vomit out of the rug on the floor was one time too many.

He ignored his phone, and luckily the Ultimates weren’t called on for anything, so he could ignore that too. Not that he was in any state to go fighting, or so the SHIELD doctor had told him. He just really hoped that the files were strictly confidential, because the last thing he needed was Gregory Stark getting wind of this. It was bad enough that he’d had to disclose the information to Fury, in order to get his medical leave signed off.

He would manage though, just fine on his own, despite the medical report and the doctors’ orders. It’d happened all the time back in his day, unwed girls that found themselves in trouble, would get sent away for months and come back later with sad eyes and empty arms.

He was doing the exact same thing, just by locking himself in his apartment and not talking to anyone.

No one else needed to know.

Especially not Stark.

  


///

  


His nights were plagued with dreams, memories. With Stark’s smart tongue and clever fingers, with the heat and mischief that had danced in his blue eyes. The hint of alcohol on his breath. The way his lips, tongue and teeth had felt against his skin. The terms of endearment that dripped off his tongue and made Steve sweat and shiver more than he already was. The desperation he’d felt clawing under his skin, the need and want that had all been artificial. Had all been because of the powder bomb that had exploded in his face, wafting magenta in the air in front of him that he hadn’t been able to avoid breathing in, sticky and sweet on his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Every morning he wakes up aroused and irritated, frustrated that the growing bulge of his stomach is making it impossible to sleep on his front like he prefers.

Every morning those frustrations are soon replaced with the need to throw up and it makes him hate himself for being careless enough to get exposed to that chemical agent, or sex pollen as Stark had dubbed it. Makes him hate himself for not riding it out on his own, but instead turning to the one person he thought he could trust and depend upon to fuck the chemical out of his system.

It makes him hate Stark for not laughing in his face and rejecting his request.

  


///

  


“ _Oh, look at you, darling.” Stark whispers against his chest, tongue dragging over a nipple that makes him squirm and try to grind closer to him. “So perfect. You truly are a sight, Captain. Has anyone ever told you that?”_

_He’s not sure how to take that, given that Stark seems to be talking to his pectoral muscles, and not his face. It’s just his body, he tells himself, that’s all Stark wants, the only reason he agreed. Just another notch in his belt, another beautiful thing for Stark to add to his collection._

_Just like the sex pollen is the only reason he asked Stark._

“ _Shut up and fuck me.” He grouches out, biting the words off short and smothering the moan that tries to escape him into his bent elbow. “Just shut up. And. Fuck. Me.”_

_Stark nips at his collar bone, the point of his shoulder, and then knocks his arm out of the way to press a lingering, closed mouth kiss to his lips. All the while he holds his legs up and open with his thighs and right hand, while his left keeps working and prying him open, working him loose, every slick slide and accompanying squelch of lube making his shiver and squirm all the more._

_He feels trapped, helpless, resting on the small of his back, and everything about Stark’s bed beneath him feels excessive and decadent. He’d have been happy if Stark had just fucked him up against the wall, but no, the man had insisted on taking him to bed, on spoiling him, lavishing attention on him and driving him wild with want. So wild that he’s not sure where the chemical effects stop and his own desire takes over._

_No. It’s all the chemical. It’s all because of a drug. He keeps telling himself that as Stark’s fingers slide out of him and his cock takes their place, thicker, hotter, the push in seeming to take forever and leaving him scrabbling for purchase on Stark’s shoulders, burying his face against his neck, moaning and shivering and squirming. All because of the drug._

“ _Oh.” Stark lets out the sound, soft against his temple where lips and stubble scrape. “Oh, darling, you have no idea.”_

“ _What?” He bites the word out, trying to wriggle and move Stark inside him, because he seems to have frozen in place above him. He clenches down tight. Stark makes a noise like he’s been punched and he feels strangely proud of being able to do that to the great Tony Stark._

“ _You’re perfect, darling. You feel so good,” Stark whispers, voice strangely warm, breath hot against his temple as he kisses him again. “You’re so good to me.”_

_There’s lube slick fingers stroking the back of his thigh, a hand holding the back of his neck, and he feels terribly, horribly safe for the first time since he woke up in this dreadful future. He loves it. He hates it. He wants it to stop, and at the same time he hopes Stark never lets him go._

_It’s just the drug, he reminds himself. It’s need, not want, that he’s feeling._

_He repeats it over and over, a mantra in his head, sung to the rhythm of Stark moving over him, against him, in him._

  


_///_

  


December makes it six months, and Steve’s grateful that he’s no longer throwing up multiple times every morning, but it’s been nearly six weeks since he found out, and six weeks since he’s seen any of the Ultimates. Apparently villains decided they wanted the festive season off. He knows he should be grateful, but he’s about to go stark raving mad inside his apartment. Six months means there’s now no denying that his body has changed, not just limited to the distended nature of his stomach. There are splotches of red colour on his neck and chest, and a dark, brownish line has appeared beneath his navel.

He glares at it every time he’s naked, and avoids being naked whenever possible.

His phone messages and emails have been piling up over time, but he can’t bring himself to care about them. It doesn’t matter how lonely he is, he doesn’t want any of SHIELD or the Ultimates to see him like this. He doesn’t want to see himself like this.

Just three more months and it’ll all be over and he can go back to being Captain America, since it’s the only thing he’s good for anyway.

He’s determined to spend the holiday season in his apartment, alone, wallowing in his own self–pity. It is Christmas after all, so he’s allowed to indulge.

Those plans are interrupted, however, by an insistent knock on his door and a familiar voice that sing–songs his title through the door.

“Oh Captain, my darling Captain. Are you home? Alive? I’ll be most upset if you turn out to be as dead as your lack of communication might suggest.”

Stark. Of course it’s Stark.

Steve glares at the door, grits his teeth and clenches his fists. “Go away, Stark. Go bother someone else.”

There’s a pause, and he’s almost sure he hears a breathy “thank god” through the door, but the idea of Stark actually being concerned messes with his current state of hating him.

“Cap? Don’t tell me you’re planning to spend Christmas alone. I was hurt when you ignored my invitations.” Stark’s voice drifts through the door and Steve can almost imagine him leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, hips cocked, so sure of himself and his place in the world. So sure that he has every right to be at Steve’s door.

“It’s not Christmas.” He bites back, because it’s not. At least, he doesn’t think it is yet. He’d turned off the television a week ago, since all that was playing was family friendly Christmas movies. He’d been listening to records. He’d stopped counting the days, stopped marking the calendar that hung on the side of his refrigerator. In fact he’s not even sure when the last time he ate was.

“Unfortunately, darling, yeah it is. Now, Jarvis has put on a lovely spread this year, and for some reason we’re the only two who are going to enjoy it. If you feel like gracing us with your delightful company, we’d be most appreciative.” He can hear Stark moving around the other side of the door, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what he might be doing.

Glancing down, Steve glares at his stomach, at the way that it presses out against the soft wool of his sweater. The knit sweater is baggy enough that his stomach might not be noticeable to anyone else, but he knows. He knows about the parasite growing inside him. “You don’t want me to come.”

The noise outside the door stops for a moment, Stark falling still. “I do.”

Stark sounds so sincere that Steve feels a pang of guilt. He hadn’t expected Stark to come looking for him. To be honest, he hadn’t expected anyone to come looking for him. His team. He doesn’t think they even like him much. Too old and stodgy, some relic from the past who has no business being in this place.

“Cap? Rogers?” Stark sounds tentative, voice a lot lower pitched and quiet, without all his usual animation and inflection. “Steve? Are you alright?”

He wants to say no. So desperately he wants to say no, for Stark to come through that door and take care of him. But going to Stark was what got him in this mess in the first place. “I’m fine Stark, go away.”

“Oh.” Stark sounds slightly wounded, a sound like he’s been punched, and it reminds him of the noise Stark had made—all those months ago—when they’d fucked.

“I’m sorry. Steve. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry.”

He thinks he hears footsteps retreating away from the door, feels the guilt stab a little harder. The longing gnaws at his heart the way it kept doing, even once the drugs had worn out of his system. He almost calls out, almost tells Stark that he’ll come to his stupid Christmas dinner if it’ll make him feel better, but the words get lodged in his throat, burning in a ball of anger that simmers near his tonsils.

He doesn’t want to be alone. His own self imposed exile, and he doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t say anything though, can’t bring himself to. Instead he turns and slinks back to the living room, sets the record to play again and settles carefully back down on the couch. His back hurts. He feels terrible, like there’s a weight pressing down on his shoulders, trying to squash him into the floor, grind him out of existence.

He kind of wishes it would.

He tries to focus on the music, so he doesn’t have to think about the empty feeling in his chest, the hollow space where his heart had once been. He doesn’t want to think about the parasite growing inside him.

He recognises the sound a fraction too late, by the time he’s on his feet, off balance and not as quick as he was before, the door is opening and Stark is stepping into his apartment.

“Up and at ‘em, Cap. We’ve got turkey to eat and wine to drink, and those funny little crackers to pop.” Stark is right there, a wide smile on his face, already smelling like the wine he’s talking about. He falters as his gaze settles on Steve, a small frown settling on his forehead as the smile starts to slip off his face. “Oh. Steve.”

He’s not sure what to say, what to make of the pity in Stark’s voice or the concern on his face. He’s not sure how to handle Stark when he looks serious. He stands there, still slightly hunched over from standing up from the couch, knowing that he must look like a complete mess. He hasn’t shaved in days, weeks even, he hasn’t showered for at least half that time, since he can’t stand the idea of being naked.

“What are you doing here?” He growls out, starting to feel like a trapped animal. He didn’t want Stark to know.

Stark blinks at him, takes another step into the room and then sets down a set of keys on the sideboard. “I was worried, darling. You don’t answer your phone. No one has heard from you for more than a week.”

“I thought I told you to go away.” He straightens himself out, standing up to his full height and folding his arms across his chest, only to realise too late that it pulls the sweater tighter across his stomach. “You should leave.”

Stark’s lips twitch up in one corner, like he’s trying to smirk but it gets stuck halfway. “You hurt my feelings, darling. I only wanted to invite you to Christmas. Jarvis cooked enough for you and Thor both, but neither of you wanted to come.”

Steve just glares at Stark, trying to ignore the ache in his chest, the longing want that settled there a long time ago and refused to leave.

Taking another couple of careful steps forward, Stark stops next to his kitchen table. The paperwork is still there, from the SHIELD doctors. The sonogram image in a yellow envelope. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them out. Every time he dumped them in the bin, he’d ended up fishing them out again. He hopes that Stark doesn’t spot them immediately, but he’s not sure he can trust his luck.

“Are you alright, darling?” Stark asks, his voice very soft and gentle.

Hunching his shoulders, Steve clenches his hands into fists. “I’m not real good company right now, Stark.”

That did get a smile out of Stark that time, a flash of teeth and a sparkle in his eye. “I can see that, darling. But then I’ve never been accused of hanging out with good company.”

He knows then, that Stark means to loiter, to hang around and annoy him until he can’t stand it any more. Until he does something stupid like start a fight, or kiss the infuriating man. He’s not sure which is worse. “Stark. Go home.”

Stark settles his hands on the tabletop, fingers tapping at the edges of the stack of papers there, thumbnails flicking at the edge of the yellow envelope. “Come with me.”

Shaking his head he stands his ground, carefully watching the way that Stark keeps fiddling with the papers on the table. “Go. Home.”

Stark gives him a sardonic smile. “Come with me. Steve. Please. No one should be alone on Christmas.”

It’s a nice sentiment, except for the fact that he’s not alone, hasn’t been for six months. “I don’t mind.”

Stark gives him a considering look, mouth set in a firm line. “What if I do?”

Straightening up again, Steve frowns at Stark. He’s starting to feel sick, like he had every morning for weeks. He realises, belatedly, that he’s nervous. Nervous like he hasn’t been since he first started courting Gail. For whatever reason, Stark makes him nervous. He wishes it was mortification at the knowledge of what they’d done six months ago, but it’s not, it feels like something else.

Whatever it is, he wants it to stop.

“Are you mad at me because we had sex?” Stark asks suddenly, out of the blue, his fingers curling around the edge of the envelope, looking everywhere but at Steve. “If it’s a problem for you, darling, don’t let it be. You were under duress, inhibited, so it’s hardly fair on you. Consent and all that. I’m sorry. If that’s what the problem is.”

He feels numb, cold to his core, like he’s back in the ice. He’s spent so long being angry at Stark for being in the predicament that he is, but he doesn’t at all like it when Stark tries to lump the blame on himself. He drops his arms, clenches his hands at his sides and takes several steadying breaths, looking away from Tony as he does. He stares at the record player, watching it spin over and over even though he can no longer focus on the music. “It’s not that. It’s. No.”

Stark shoots him a glance out the corner of his eye. “Then come to dinner with me. You can glare at me while I drink too much and laugh at terrible Christmas jokes, and you can refuse the gifts that I try to give you. It’ll be fun. One night, Steve, that’s all I’m asking.”

He shakes his head, glaring at the record player. He wishes Stark would leave. He wishes he’d stay. He wishes he’d stop fiddling with the envelope, it’s starting to wear on Steve’s nerves.

He hears Stark suck in a breath, hears the papers stop shuffling, and then hears an electronic click and the faint sound of ringing. When he looks up, Stark has taken a step back from the table and has his phone pressed to his ear, eyes narrowed slightly and he watches Steve.

“Hi, Jarvis, my good man. The Captain is feeling a bit under the weather, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind packing up some of your delightful Christmas dinner and bringing it around to his apartment.” He pauses, holding up a hand when Steve goes to protest. “Enough for two, I think. Enough for more, he can live off the leftovers for a while.”

When he hangs up the phone, Steve crosses his arms back over his chest and glares at Stark as hard as he can. “What are you doing?”

Smiling warmly at him, Stark tucks his phone back into his pocket. “If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, I just bring the mountain to him.”

Steve just glares harder, trying to mask his confusion.

Huffing out a laugh, Stark rolls his eyes. “If you insist on being a stubborn recluse on Christmas, I have no choice but to bring Christmas to you. Jarvis has agreed to bring some food over so we can eat and then spend the night watching Christmas movies. I do hope you have _Die Hard_.”

“That’s not a Christmas movie.” He spits out, frowning at Stark in confusion, relieved that he’s no longer touching the yellow envelope.

“Bah Humbug.” Stark counters with a grin, bright and every bit the lush that he is. “It is definitely a Christmas movie.”

He has to turn away from that smile. That’s the sort of smile that got him in this mess in the first place. “Whatever you say, Stark.”

“I do say. Now, how about you go clean yourself up while I wait for Jarvis?” Stark gives him a once over, wrinkling his nose up as he does. “Take it from someone who has had a lot of experience being a mess, Cap, you’ll feel better for it.”

Deciding not to even fight, he does slip off to the bathroom, resolutely not making eye contact with his reflection as he strips and steps into the shower. The hot water does make him feel better, even though the process of washing himself makes him feel nauseous.

He hears a knock on the door as he’s getting dressed again, trying to find a sweater big enough that it’ll disguise his swollen stomach. To make matters worse, most of his pants will barely do up anymore, he’s been wearing mostly sweat pants for the last couple of weeks, but he feels like he needs to put in more of an effort now that he’s got company.

When he exits his bedroom again, Stark’s butler is still there, standing by the door and getting dressed again to go outside. Jarvis gives him a calculating look, the sort that makes Steve feel like he’s being dissected, before he mutters something quietly to Stark who is unpacking food from a hamper onto the kitchen table.

Steve tries not to think too much about it. He always got the impression that Jarvis liked Thor far more than him, but then Stark glances up at him, giving him a lingering look, a slight frown. He narrows his eyes to glare back.

“Merry Christmas, Captain Rogers.” Jarvis greets him, features settled back into their slightly pinched, but overall pleasant mould. “I do hope you’re feeling better soon.”

He nods, belatedly. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

Stark glances at him again, expression softer this time, an expression lurking in his eyes that Steve doesn’t want to identify. After a moment Stark shakes his head, like he’s trying to get rid of the thought, then he turns to Jarvis. “You should head off, I think it’s going to start snowing later, probably want to get home before that.”

Steve slips back into his room as Tony ushers Jarvis out of the door. He doesn’t feel any better even though he’s out of sight. He doesn’t feel good at all, hasn’t for weeks. He looks at his bed, unmade, sheets a mess, and all he wants to do it curl up in it and try to ignore everything going on around him. It’s a terrible thought. A useless, terrible thought, such a waste of time. He’s supposed to be better than this, stronger than this. He’s Captain America, he’s supposed to punch Nazis and fight super villains.

He’s a fucking joke.

That’s what he is.

One huge cosmic joke.

With another cosmic joke growing inside him.

Something growing inside him that’s eating him from the inside out, sucking everything out of him until all that’s left is some used up husk. A freak of nature.

Just like he’s been since Project Rebirth.

“Steve?”

Stark’s voice is right there, so close that he wants to reach out for it, but he can’t seem to get his arms to work.

“Steve, shit. Hey, darling, look at me?”

He does, because Stark sounds worried, and he doesn’t want to worry him. Stark is standing right in front of him, hands hovering near his face but not touching, there’s worry creasing lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes.

A small smile plays in the corner of Stark’s mouth, minute and encouraging. “Will you tell me what’s the matter, darling?”

He means to shake his head, to tell Stark to back off, to stop calling him darling all the time. It’s what he plans to say, but once he opens his mouth, something else entirely slips out. “I have a parasite growing inside me.”

Stark’s eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open slightly as he takes a step backwards. “Fuck.”

He turns his face away from the look of abject terror on Stark’s face. “Yeah.”

Stark starts pacing in short lines between Steve’s bed and the door, one hand pressed over his mouth. “What do you know about it? Have you seen a doctor? Spoken to SHIELD?”

He grunts out a yes. It feels like his skin is starting to crawl; he’s not sure if it’s the proximity to Stark, or the conversation, or the parasite inside him.

Stark stops, pivoting back around to face him. “Okay, so they know. What’s the course of action?”

He grunts again, folding his arms over his chest, hunching his shoulders. “Wait it out.”

“Wait it out?” Stark sounds like the wind is knocked out of him. “Wait it out? For how long?”

He can’t meet Stark’s eye, stares past him out the door, even though all there is to look at is the hallway wall. “A few more months.”

Stark lets out a long breath, rubbing his hand over his face and back through his hair. He turns to look over his shoulder, like he’s trying to see what it is that Steve is staring at. “Okay. Okay. A few more months and you’ll be alright again? Do you have any information on what it is? Anything from medical?”

He squints at the wall, flickering his gaze over to Stark for a second before looking back at his bed. Unmade. He feels disgusted in himself for not even managing to do that in the mornings. “There’s a report on the table. Scans in the yellow envelope.”

He sees Stark twitch, like he’s ready to bolt back out to the kitchen to have a look at the information on offer, but he catches himself before he does. Stark looks at him again, more intently than before. “Do you mind if I have a look?”

Shrugging, Steve fights the urge to just collapse down onto his bed. He still wants to just curl up and forget everything that’s happening. Except he can’t, because part of the problem is pacing around his bedroom, while the other part of the problem—the bigger part—is steadily growing inside of him. Not to mention that he needs to do something about the fact that his mouth ran away from him when he’d had no intention of telling Stark about the _thing_ growing inside him.

There’s a touch on his shoulder, fleeting, fingers curling tight and digging into his bones. When he glances up Stark is looking at him with concern, eyes soft. “Steve? Is it okay if I have a look?”

Like an idiot, he nods. He regrets it as soon as he does, as soon as Stark lets go of his shoulder and leaves the room, leaving him in the void left behind. He rocks on the balls of his feet, drops his arms away from his chest. One hand hovers for a moment in front of his stomach, clenched into a fist, but he can’t touch—won’t touch—can’t stand the way it feels. He turns and thumps his hand against the wall instead, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that the noise drowns out the sound of Stark shuffling papers in the next room.

He hears the moment when Stark freezes, when the papers stop sliding against each other, and the sharp intake of breath that Stark takes. He can almost hear his confusion, hear the way his brain is working over time. He holds his breath and tries to quiet the pounding of his heart, because he needs to hear how Stark reacts, dreading it at the same time.

“Steve?” Stark’s voice is almost soft, careful like he’s trying to talk someone down off a ledge, but at the same time he sounds hopelessly confused.

He can’t hide in his room all night, he knows that. Some fights are better to meet head on, so he sets his shoulders, straightens his back and marches back out to the kitchen. Stark is standing there at the table, both hands on the surface of it as he hunches over to look at the pages spread out before him. Front and centre is the sonogram image.

Stark jerks his head up, stares wide eyed across the room at Steve, lifting one hand off the table to point at the image. “That’s a baby.”

Steve snarls, feeling anger curling in his chest. “It’s a fucking parasite!”

Stark flinches back as though Steve dealt a physical blow, hands pulling away from the table as he takes a careful step back. “Steve, darling. What happened?”

_You happened._ He thinks it, seething, something dark inside him wanting to push all the blame onto Stark, to take it out on him, punish Stark like it would actually make him feel better. Except, he knows it won’t. Nothing is going to change the fact that what happened, happened. He should be used to nothing going his way, things happening out of his control. His world getting turned over and over and never being able to do anything about it. In the end he can’t answer, he can just stand there, not looking at Stark, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check.

Taking a careful step forward, Stark moves around the table towards him, every step slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “How long have you,” He pauses, breathes in and out, then tries again. “How long has this been going on?”

That he can answer, though he’s a little bitter that he even has to. He thought Stark was meant to be a genius, surely he could figure out that the only time he’d been fucked had been six months ago, and that he was the only one who’d ever done it. He glances back up at Stark, challengingly. “Six months.”

“Hence waiting it out a few more months,” Stark mumbles under his breath, forehead scrunching as he thinks.

Steve sees the moment that it all comes together in Stark’s head, the way his eyes go wide, mouth slack. The way he lifts a hand and presses it over the lower half of his face, blinking owlishly at Steve. When he finally breathes again, it’s loud, shuddery, the sound of it rattling around the room.

“The chemical agent.” Stark spills the words out into the palm of his hand, nearly smothering them. “That’s my baby?”

The fact that it sounds like a question rankles Steve beyond belief. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glares at Stark, then growls when Stark’s eyes drop from his face to stare at his stomach. “I haven’t just been spreading my legs for everyone, Stark! Of course it’s fucking yours.”

Stark’s gaze jerks back up again, hurt flashing across his face as his hand drops away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“How could I?” He snaps, biting the words out and wishing he could knock some sense into Stark. Knock that look of hurt and longing and fucking wonder off his face. He isn’t some freak to be gawked at. “This was never meant to happen. This shouldn’t have happened. Men don’t get—”

The words freeze in his throat, because he can’t say that. He can’t say that word, the word the SHIELD doctor had said to him. Because the thing in side him wasn’t that. It was a parasite.

The expression on Stark’s face changes, everything from before disappearing, leaving in their stead the steady look of concentration that he gets when he’s faces with a problem. “No, of course not. Not in the black and white world of X and Y chromosomes and what they mean, but you aren’t looking for a lesson on gender and how not to be a judgemental bigot.”

It feels like Stark is poking fun at him, having a go at him, like it’s somehow his fault. Glaring harder, he unfolds his arms from across his chest, hands balling to fists at his sides. “You got a problem, Stark?”

For a moment it looks like Stark is going to take him up on the fight, going to lash out in response, but then he sort of deflates, shoulders coming down and his arms dropping back to his sides. He glances at the sonogram image again, reaching out it to touch his fingers to the edge of it. When he looks up there’s an expression in his eyes that Steve can’t decipher. “No, Steve. I’m just worried about you, and the baby.”

The word makes Steve bristle, feeling everything in his body go tight, except the swirling, nauseous feeling in his stomach. The twists and wriggles beneath his skin, but he doesn’t think he’s going to throw up. “It’s a parasite.”

Stark frowns a little, looking back at the sonogram. He picks it up, carefully only touching the very edges, holding it like it is something precious. Turning it so the image faces Steve, he takes another careful step closer. “It’s a baby. Steve, I know this isn’t something that was supposed to happen. I know that it’s confusing and scary, I’m not even sure how this happened. Who knows what else that chemical agent did to you, what other effects it had. But that’s a baby, not a parasite.”

Stark looks so earnest, the most sincere he think he’s ever seen him look, and Steve really wants to knock that expression off his face. Wants to hit him hard enough he’ll stop saying that word. Keep hitting him until the look of wonder and longing disappear from his eyes. He feels short of breath, like his lungs are constricting and his throat is closing over. Despite wanting to resort to violence, he doesn’t have the energy to. He just wants to crawl back into his bed and try to forget everything that’s happening.

Stark takes another step closer. “That’s our baby, Steve. And I have to believe that you wouldn’t hurt anything so defenceless and innocent.”

He doesn’t know what to say in response to that. How to dissuade Stark of his foolish notion. How to tell him he’s an idiot for trusting him. Steve doesn’t deserve that kind of belief. For the better part of six weeks of knowing, all he has done is wish ill will upon the parasite growing inside him. In the time before he knew he hadn’t taken any particular care of himself. All he has done is hate it, when it hasn’t done anything to deserve that other than simply existing.

It’s not it’s fault that it’s growing there, inside him.

Though he doesn’t know if he can possibly hate himself any more that he already does for turning to Stark when he’d been drugged, he doesn’t even really hate Stark for it, just himself. He doesn’t think he would have let Stark say no if he’d tried to. He hadn’t when Stark had asked him, over and over again if it was what he really wanted. It had been, at the time. He had wanted it so much, damn the consequences.

Now the consequences were damning him, taking up space beneath his sweater. Making his life even more of a joke than it already was. He knows he can’t tell Stark he’s placing his beliefs correctly, because he doesn’t know if any stage of his neglect has hurt the—thing—growing inside him or not.

It very well could have.

The idea makes him hate himself even more. That he could be hurting an innocent and unassuming life just because he hates himself for the fact that it even exists.

“What if I have?” He asks, deliberately not looking down at his stomach, but watching Stark’s face as his eyes drift down that way. “What if I have hurt it?”

Stark’s face goes pale, stricken and hurt, and Steve thinks he might as well have punched him. A broken jaw might have hurt less than those words appeared to.

“You haven’t.” Stark rasps out the words, strangled sounds that don’t quite make a question. “You wouldn’t.”

“Not deliberately.” He bites back, because sure he might be an arsehole at the best of times, but he can’t stand the idea that Stark thinks he’d hurt it deliberately. No matter how much he hates it. “But it’s not like I’ve been looking after it.”

Some of the colour comes back to Stark’s face, the relief that flashes through his eyes makes Steve’s stomach turn again. It hurts to think Stark really believed, for a moment, that he’d hurt it deliberately.

Taking another step closer Stark is all but in his space, barely a respectable distance away, and Steve can’t figure out if he wants to step back or lean closer. He knows he should step back, logically, he knows it, but it doesn’t stop him from swaying ever so slightly closer. Like a moth to a flame. Like he had six months ago.

A crooked smile graces Stark’s face, the sort that makes him look real and not the fake, over sexed and over intoxicated version of him that the rest of the world gets. Something real. The same real that he’d given Steve that night. He hates himself for wanting that real version of Stark so much. For wanting him to always be like that. To always smile at him like that. It was meant to have been a moment of drug induced weakness and he still can’t escape it.

“You’ve hardly been taking care of yourself, darling.” The words are soft, impossibly caring. Stark reaches out, slowly, telegraphing his intentions before his hand closes loosely around Steve’s wrist.

He could pull away if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t. He could pull away even if Stark was holding onto him tightly, but it makes no difference. He doesn’t move. He stands there and lets Stark’s thumb stroke across the point of his wrist, and he loves and hates the contact at the same time.

Stark takes a step back, towards the living room. “Let me take care of you. Both of you.”

When he doesn’t move, Stark’s smile goes a little sharper. “Jarvis will be sad if we let all this food go to waste.”

It’s a cheap trick, Steve thinks, because he knows Stark knows how much he hates wasting food. He should argue, should remind Stark he never invited him or his food here in the first place, but he’s too tired and hungry to fight. He’s loathe to admit it, even to himself, but being taken care of sounds like a nice change.

It isn’t giving in, he tells himself, he isn’t accepting the thing inside him is a baby just because he lets Stark lead him into the living room and get him settled onto the couch. It isn’t giving in by accepting the plate of food that Stark offers him a few minutes later. He picks at the food, not really paying attention to the television when Stark flicks it on, just letting the sounds of explosions and gunfire and witty one liners wash over him. He’s aware of Stark’s presence next to him, the space he takes up on the couch, the way he sits closer than the space demands, but Steve can’t really bring himself to care. He likes the warmth he can feel, from Stark sitting so close. Likes the fact that for the first time in months he’s not alone.

“I have doctors you can see.” Stark admits as he takes Steve’s empty plate from his hand. “Trustworthy. Not like those SHIELD hacks, anyway.”

Steve turns his head enough to give Stark a pointed look, raising one eyebrow slightly.

There’s a flicker of a smile in response. “If nothing else, I can make them sign a million non-disclosure documents, if you don’t trust doctor/patient privilege enough. Whatever you were planning to do, or not do, you should at least go see another doctor, get some professional advice.”

“So they can tell me that I’m a freak of nature too, you mean?” He grumbles, glaring at Stark as he takes the plates to the kitchen and starts rummaging around in the bags that Jarvis brought over.

Producing a Thermos flask from one of the bags, Stark opens the lip and gives it a sniff, before opening several cupboards in order to find mugs. He doesn’t say anything until he hands Steve a mug of steaming hot chocolate and sits back down beside him. “You’re not a freak of nature, darling.” He says, looking far more earnest than a Stark has any right to. “For starters, you aren’t the first man to get pregnant. I’m not going to argue chromosomes with you right now, but it’s a fact.”

Glaring at his mug, Steve doesn’t think he cares one bit about whether he’s the first, last or only. The fact still remains that it never should have happened to him. His stomach turns again, lungs feeling a fraction too small, in a way that makes him breathe extra carefully. Shifting on the couch, he tries to find a more comfortable position, but it only results in having Stark scrutinising him.

“Are you okay, darling?” Tony asks, reaching out to take Steve’s mug and setting both of them down on the coffee table.

Shrugging, he almost reaches to press a hand to his stomach but freezes when it’s inches away. He doesn’t want to touch it. Stark is watching him carefully and his eyes go wide, mouth dropping open slightly.

“Is the baby moving?” Stark asks, hands fluttering in the space between them, looking amazed and excited in such a way that Steve really just wants to smack him.

“No. It’s not—” He’s about to deny that it’s a baby again, deny that it—whatever it is—is moving, but he feels it again, the flutter of movement inside him that he doesn’t think he’s felt before. Dropping his hand back to the couch cushion he clenches it into a fist and glares at Stark, this has to be his fault somehow. “It hasn’t done this before.”

Stark’s brow creases slightly, eyes turning serious as he tugs his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping at the screen. After a moment his expression turns soft again and he looks relieved when he sets his phone aside and looks back at Steve. “It’s perfectly normal to only start feeling movement at six months, so nothing to worry about there.”

Glaring, Steve resists the urge to push Stark off of the couch. “Nothing about this is normal” He spits the words out, tasting like bile, and he feels the weird flutter of movement in his stomach again. Somehow it feels unhappy and unsettled.

There’s a slightly pinched look about Stark’s features, a tightness behind his eyes. “No, of course it isn’t. Sorry, darling. You’re right, nothing about this is normal, but like it or not, this is something that is happening, and you can’t ignore it forever.”

He knows that Stark is right, but he doesn’t want to admit it. He’d done just fine so far, not thinking about things, not acknowledging what is happening. Except, even that’s a lie. He’s known all along that there is a time limit, that eventually he’d have to take some sort of action.

When he doesn’t say anything, Stark reaches out, telegraphing his movements, to rest his hand carefully on Steve’s shoulder, heavy enough that he feels it through his sweater, but not heavy enough to be overbearing. The touch, actual human contact, makes something sharp and tight form in his throat, makes his heart give a jolt, and he knows he’s leaning into the contact despite himself. He’s not sure what he feels, as much as he’s hating everything about the situation he’s gotten himself into, he feels the tug of longing. The wanting for another night like the night that had started this whole mess. He wants Stark to touch him again, more than just his shoulder. To pull him apart, hold him together.

Stop him from breaking into pieces.

“It’s going to be okay, darling.” Stark murmurs, sounding like he really believes it. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll get you the best doctors, make sure you’re in the safest of hands. And once it’s all over, I’ll look after the baby.”

The weird, breathing capacity reducing, fluttering feeling comes again, more insistent than before. He isn’t sure how much of it is relief and how much of it is the parasite. He’s not sure why it’s moving so much so suddenly, other than perhaps to punish him by reminding him that it’s alive.

Stark’s hand tightens on his shoulder, thumb pressing into the divot below his collarbone, leaning in and watching him with earnest eyes. “If you want nothing to do with the baby after this, I will honour that. Steve, whatever you want to happen afterwards will happen.”

The idea of handing the parasite off to someone else and never seeing it again is tempting. It’s what he’d imagined doing all along. Letting someone who would love it take it off his hands. He just hadn’t stopped to think that perhaps Stark would be the person to do it. He hates Stark for not hating the parasite as much as he does. And yet, he doesn’t hate him at all. It seems like it should be a good thing that at least one of the people responsible for its existence should want it.

Yet, there is something like a hollow ache of longing that Steve can’t quite label. The idea of handing the parasite off to Stark and knowing that he’d love it and dote on it, while he stays firmly on the sidelines doesn’t sit well with him either.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

“I want it to stop squirming.” He grumbles bitterly, because he needs to talk about something else. Anything to stop Stark talking about the future.

Though, in hindsight it wasn’t the best choice of things to say.

Stark gets that look of wonder again, eyes going wider and his lips tugging up into a soft smile. “Do you think, perhaps I could feel it?”

The idea of Stark touching his stomach makes him go hot and cold all at once, skin prickling and he’s not sure if it’s fear, disgust or embarrassment, but he jerks back away from Stark’s touch. “No.”

Stark pulls his hand back, leaning away from Steve, face going carefully blank and it’s infinitely worse than the few expressions of hurt that he’d shown throughout the night. It makes guilt crawl beneath his skin, uneasy and horrid and he tries to push it away, but it refuses to move.

Stark shifts again, like he’s about to get up, and Steve can see it all play out in his mind. Stark standing up from the couch, packing up everything he brought and leaving. Shutting the door behind him, and leaving him alone with the parasite, every word Stark had said about looking after them becoming lies. He doesn’t want to be left alone with this thing growing inside him. He certainly doesn’t want to be left to look after it alone at the end of everything.

He doesn’t want Stark to leave, he knows that, and he also knows he wants Stark touching him again, as much as he’s loathe to admit it. He’s reaching out before he thinks too much on it, grabbing hold of Stark’s wrist and tugging his hand back towards him. Stark resists, trying to pull back away from him, eyes going wide.

“It’s okay, darling, I know that no means no.” Stark’s voice is strained and all wrong, like he’s trying to make light of the situation but falling well short. “You don’t want me touching you, I can respect that.”

Glowering, he tugs on Stark’s wrist a little harder. “Shut up and fucking touch the damn thing before I change my mind again.”

Resisting still, Stark’s face flashes a range of emotions, from annoyance to uncertainty to longing. He reaches out with his other hand, carefully prying Steve’s fingers loose from his wrist, but doesn’t move away once he’s freed himself. He looks thoughtful for a moment. “It’s okay, really darling. If you don’t want me to.”

“You want to.” Steve argues, spitting words out, not sure if he feels nervous or sick at the idea of Stark touching his stomach, but the weird fluttering feeling comes again, more insistently. “And this thing hasn’t stopped squiggling since you got here, so it obviously wants you to too, so shut the fuck up and touch me.”

Still Stark hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Clenching his jaw so hard it grinds his teeth together, Steve nods, glaring at the space behind Stark’s right ear because he can’t quite handle the look on his face. “I’ll change my mind again if you don’t hurry up.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Stark to do, maybe just shove his hand beneath his sweater and touch his stomach. He certainly isn’t expecting it when Stark slides off of the couch onto his knees in front of him, or the expression on his face, gentle and caring, as he watches Steve’s face when he reaches up and carefully lifts the bottom of his sweater. Everything about the scene is too personal, too sensual, too intimate, but he can’t bring himself to stop Stark as he folds the bottom of his sweater and his under shirt out of the way. He looks fascinated as he focuses on Steve’s stomach, hands careful and ever so gentle as they settle against his skin.

He wants to pull Stark’s hands away from his skin, and at the same time he hopes he never stops touching him. It feels nicer than he wants it to, the weight and warmth of his hands, but nothing at all compares to the way Stark’s eyes go soft and his mouth opens as he breathes out a shocked sound.

“Oh, darling.” He whispers, shifting his hands, following the fluttery movement beneath Steve’s skin. “I think I can feel it moving.”

He’s smiling when he looks up again, and Steve feels a pang of jealousy that it’s the parasite that has made Stark smile and not him.

Looking back at Steve’s stomach, Stark’s smile goes even softer, he rubs his thumbs across Steve’s skin in undecipherable patterns. “ _Va bene bambino, papà è qui._ ”

He has no idea what it means, but Stark sounds so sincere when he whispers it that Steve almost feels like he’s intruding on a private conversation. He’s pretty sure he is, because it certainly didn’t feel as though Stark was talking to him. He wishes he was though, the words, the tone, the expression are all so reassuring and he really wishes it was directed at him too.

He’s wanting things he shouldn’t, though, so it’s all pointless. He doesn’t reach out to Stark, despite wanting to, just watches, watches his hands against his stomach, the difference in their skin tone. Tries not to look too closely at his stomach at all, but he can still feel the parasite moving around inside him. The movement gets stronger every time Stark talks. Because of course Stark talks to it. He never shuts up, and right now he has a captive audience. It’s not like the parasite will be able to run away from him any time soon.

Three more months.

It seems like an impossibly long time, he isn’t sure he can stand it that much longer. It’s starting to hinder his movements already, and makes him impossibly tired. He’s not sure how anyone can enjoy this, but these days it seems as though women wear their pregnancy as though it were a badge of honour. Something to be proud of.

Just not for him.

He’d much rather stay behind his closed door and ignore everything that is happening.

“Steve, darling.” Stark’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. At the sound of his voice, the parasite gives another squirm, and if the way Stark’s eyes widen a little, Steve knows he felt it too.

“What?” He grumbles when Stark seems to have become distracted. It’s a surprise when he feels the flutter of movement in response to his own voice as well.

There’s a smile directed his way when Stark looks up again. “What do you want to do from here?”

Go to sleep, he thinks. Go to sleep and keep trying to pretend that none of this is happening. Except it is happening, he can see the way the skin on his stomach is stretched thin and translucent enough he can see the blue lines of his veins. He feels the artery that runs down his thigh twinge, pulse and ache when he moves sometimes, which he’s sure is related to the parasite. It’s a living thing, growing inside him, taking so much from him. Once it’s out of him, it’ll want so much more than he can offer.

Not more than Tony can offer though. He knows that Tony will take the kid and look after it, love it, give it all the very best things. Be a father to the baby, like he knows he can’t be.

It doesn’t matter how much he tries to deny it, or call it other things, the parasite is really a baby. A living, growing, human baby. Who will have at least one parent that loves it.

He doesn’t reach out to touch Stark, no matter how compelled he feels to place his hand over top of Stark’s where it rests against his stomach. He wants to, but it’s too close. Instead he closes his eyes and admits defeat. “Guess you should start organising your doctors. Probably should see one of them.”

Stark’s hands shift away from his skin, he feels the slide of fabric against his skin as his sweater is pulled back down, and the change in air pressure as Stark stands back up. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that Stark is leaning in close to him, so he doesn’t flinch when he feels the stroke of fingers through his hair and the brush of lips against his forehead. He bristles instead, hands clenching to fists where they rest on the couch cushions. He wants to lean into it. Wants to jerk away from it. Wants to grab Stark and hold him there so he stays close until he can think straight for long enough to figure out what he wants.

He doesn’t do any of those things though, just sits there and tries not to get too addicted to the little signs of affection.

“Thank you, darling.” Stark whispers against his hair. “I am going to take the very best care of you both.”

It’s so sincere sounding that Steve can’t help but believe him. He believes that Stark means it. That he’ll look after him until the baby is born, and then he’ll look after the baby.

He’s just not sure that it’s going to be enough to counteract how much he’s hated the last six months.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger/Content Warnings: Steve sleeps with Tony because of sex pollen, so there is consent issues there, on both sides, really. Steve sought out Tony in particular, but it was the sex pollen that drove him to do it. Because it wasn't just a sex pollen, Steve gets pregnant and upon finding out has a lot of issues with it. He continuously thinks of the fetus as a parasite, doesn't take care of himself or the fetus, and wishes harm upon it, though no reference or thoughts of abortion.


End file.
